


The Adventure Of The Riviera Robbery (1901)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [197]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Framing Story, Gossip, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Neighbors, Unrequited Crush, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 08:45:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11733615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Murder of a man's reputation is a horrible thing - so Sherlock adds to the mix with some gunfire, some suspicious nighttime activity and a missing government agent.





	The Adventure Of The Riviera Robbery (1901)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nirelian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nirelian/gifts).



> The Herculean reference is to the Fifth of the Twelve Labours. King Augeas of Elis owned countless oxen and horses, and it was the great hero's job to clean out his dirty stables. In one day. And because the livestock were immortal, they had produced rather a lot of.... you know what. Hercules achieved the task by diverting two rivers so that they flowed through the stables; Augeas refused to pay the promised one-tenth of his cattle, so Hercules killed him and placed the king's son Phyleus on the throne instead.  
> 

I had not sulked all the way from Paddington. I had not! And I was still not sulking on Platform One of Whitland Station in Carmarthenshire, as I waited for the approaching branch-line train to our final destination. A destination that did _not_ have a Gallic flavour.

“You, Sherlock Castiel Holmes, are a mean man!” I not-sulked.

There was silence from the blue-eyed bastard next to me.

“And you smirk far too loudly!”

“What is wrong, John?” asked someone who was not getting laid (or doing any laying) in the immediate(ish) future. “I told you true. I said that we were having a case on the Riviera.”

I scowled at him.

“You know damn well I thought you meant the _French_ Riviera, not the Welsh one!” I grumbled. Not that I had any particular liking for France (especially with the uncertain situation on the Continent just now), but Sherlock had come out of his room last night wearing a new swimming costume and had asked what I had thought of it. Talk about tight-fitting! 

Still, at least he would be the one to have to explain to the shop just how it had ended up getting torn like that. Hah! I looked around and sighed. 

“Seven years”, I muttered, as we clambered into the Pembroke branch train”. My friend looked at me in surprise.

“What is 'seven years'?” he asked.

I said nothing, but of course, he got it.

“The Dick Roman case, when I.... was attacked coming back from Ireland”, he said. “Yes, I would have come through this station, although of course I did not notice it at the time....”

He looked at me, and smiled.

“Never mind”, he said consolingly. “Maybe when we finally get to Saundersfoot, I will see if I can take your mind off of such unpleasant memories.”

“That will take some doing!” I retorted childishly, though I could not help but smile.

“Well for one thing, once we are settled into our hotel there, you can help me out of the panties that I am wearing.”

Suddenly Platform One was no longer that fascinating, plus the fact that I seemed to be having some difficulty with my breathing. He moved back to sit opposite me, then briefly lowered his belt.

The blue lacy ones! He really was trying to kill me!

+~+~+

I sighed. I really was getting old. I had duly divested one far too cheeky detective of both his smirk and his panties, the latter being torn to shreds in my frustration, and had then felt a sense of overwhelming gratitude when he had suggested a long hot soak afterwards. And even better, the bath-tub was one of those huge ones into which we could both fit. 

I sighed happily as the little scruffian leant back into me.

“You were mean!” I muttered. “Wearing those all the way from London without telling me.”

“Had I done, so , I very much doubt that we would have made it as far as Westbourne Park Halt", he grinned leaning back for a kiss, "let alone West Wales! We are here because I received a rather unusual letter from a Reverend Charles Jones, the parish priest of St. Cadoc's Church in the town. He seemed most concerned that someone has been spreading malicious gossip about a new arrival in his domain.”

“A lot of gossip is malicious”, I observed. “That is why people enjoy spreading it.”

“I rather suspect that there may be more to his simple request than meets the eye”, Sherlock said, rubbing himself lazily up against me. Incredibly, despite my aching body, Little John started to perk up.

“You are asking for it!” I grumbled. “But because I love you so much, I will settle for some of that 'cuddling' that you love so much.”

All these years and still; no-one could do judgmental silences like my Sherlock!

+~+~+

The Reverend Jones was a tall patrician of a cleric, some fifty years of age and with greying hair. Which reminded me; I needed to get my little brother back for sending me that advertisement for hair colourant, just because he had been the one to walk in on me and Sherlock that time when we.... well.

Perhaps, on reflection, he had had just cause. This time.

“I am grateful that you have come, gentlemen”, the cleric said, as we sat down in his little office at the back of the impressive town church. “I only wish that it could have been sooner.”

“Have their been developments?” Sherlock asked. He nodded.

“The Goshen sisters have been burgled”, he said. “And they are blaming poor Mr. Davis!”

“I think that you had better start at the beginning”, Sherlock said firmly. “Your letter was informative but I am sure that there is a lot more that you can tell us, now that we are actually here.”

The vicar nodded. I noted that he had obviously read my works, because he had coffee ready for us, and lots of it. Indeed, 'someone' was already on his second cup.

“Four months ago, a gentleman called Mr. Rhys Davis moved to this parish”, our host said. “His family originally haled from Tenby and, I believe, some of them still live there. He himself had gone off to London, to do whatever people who go there do, and he had chosen to settle here presumably for his retirement, though I believe that he can be barely fifty years of age.”

“Young indeed”, said someone who was not getting laid that evening. Or doing any laying. 

Sherlock just looked at me. I should have mentioned that the room was very cold. That was why I shivered.

“The late Mr. and Mrs. Goshen lived in a huge three-storey place on the sea-front”, the vicar explained. “Trefforest House, it was called. When they died, it was far too large for the sisters, so they had it converted into numbers 1, 2 and 3 Trefforest Cottages. They rented number 3 to three separate tenants, lived in number 2 themselves, and sold number 1 outright to Mr. Davis.”

“Who are the people living in number 3?” Sherlock asked.

“A young married couple called the Penistones live on the ground floor”, the vicar said. “I believe that he works in a bank in Pembroke; they have no children. The first floor is occupied by a Miss Alice Goldsworthy and the second, a Mr. Brian Jones. She is a secretary at an estate agent in Whitland, and he is a radio operator with a shipping company who operate out of Milford.”

Sherlock pressed his long fingers together and stared at the vicar. I knew that look. The man sighed.

“I suppose that I should add that the Goshens are the worst gossips in town”, he admitted. “We all have our failings.”

“You say that there has now been a burglary?” Sherlock asked. The vicar nodded.

“Last night, or I would have telegraphed you about it”, he said. “Helen and Katherine – the sisters – are distraught, as they lost some jewellery which, although not valuable in monetary terms, had been bequeathed to them from their late mother, and had great sentimental value. It was all insured, but that is small consolation.”

Sherlock frowned.

“And the Goshen sisters have the _centre_ house of the three 'cottages' created from the former Trefforest House?” he asked.

“Yes.”

My friend thought for a moment.

“I think that we need to pay a call on Mr. Davis”, he said. “You did not say if he is married or not?”

“He is not”, the vicar said.

Sherlock was looking at him again. The man fidgeted uneasily under that azure gaze.

“I did wonder if one or both of the sisters were interested in him”, he said, blushing. 

“I think that we should make haste and repair to Mr. Davis' house this day”, Sherlock said, rising to his feet. 

I did not see the urgency, but I supposed that he had his reasons.

Of course, he had.

+~+~+

Mr. Rhys Davis was... well, I was not sure what to make of him, if truth be told. Physically he was in good health, a fairly nondescript gentleman well-kept for his fifty or so years of age, with flaxen hair and spectacles. Yet there was something about him which suggested that his new abode might not be the only thing that was semi-detached. I wondered what sort of questions Sherlock might ask him, and if he would for that matter get any answers. 

My friend spent some time looking around what seemed like a perfectly normal living-room before speaking.

“Have you ever considered marriage?” 

All right, that one was unexpected. And bordering on rather personal, I thought, although our host did not seem offended.

“I have not”, he said. “I enjoy the single life, sir.”

“Are you enjoying your life here?” Sherlock asked.

The man hesitated.

“I had been”, he sighed. “Until all this happened.”

Sherlock smiled knowingly. 

“It is your good fortune that your travails have drawn the concern of your parish priest”, he said. “He has called me in to assist in the matter. I believe that I can help you.”

The man looked at him curiously.

“What can you do?” he asked. “No man alive can stop the power of gossip, and that is what is being used against me.”

“I intend to take a lesson from the ancient hero, Hercules”, Sherlock said to my surprise, “and in particular, the Labour that he undertook to clean the Augean Stables. If you would be guided by me for one week, sir, we may endeavour to remedy matters.”

The man seemed unsure, but eventually nodded.

+~+~+

“What was that all about?” I demanded once we had left. 

Sherlock smiled and gestured to the cottage next door to the one we had just emerged from. Two elderly ladies were gardening, and also very evidently eavesdropping.

“Top secret”, he said, loudly enough for them to hear. “I shall tell you when we get back to the hotel.”

He did not, the bastard!

+~+~+

Three days later was a Sunday, and we attended the service at St. Cadoc's. The reverend met us beforehand and asked to speak with us after the service was over, so we waited and met him in his office.

“The Goshen sisters are worried”, he told us. “They are sure that they heard gunshots from inside Mr. Davis' house on Friday. And yesterday he went to the shooting-range at Haverfordwest.”

“People are allowed to visit such places”, Sherlock said dryly. “How did the ladies chance to know about that, pray?”

“Miss Katherine was doing some shopping in the town, and saw him enter”, the vicar said.

“That is strange”, Sherlock said. “I have myself once visited the range in that town, years ago on another case, and there are no shops anywhere near it. I do hope that she has not taken to following her neighbour around solely to find gossip.”

The vicar looked like he wanted to deny such an idea, but instead glanced heavenward, presumably fearful that his employer might not take kindly to such a blatant lie being uttered in the House of the Lord. Sherlock grinned.

+~+~+

The following day, the vicar came to see us at the hotel.

“Miss Helen is beside herself”, he said. “She was looking out of her back window last night, and saw Mr. Davis dragging something large and bulky into his shed. At a quarter to midnight!”

“Miss Helen seems to keep irregular hours”, I observed, not at all cattily. 

“She said that she got up for a glass of warm milk and a biscuit”, the vicar told us.

Sherlock just gave him a look. At least the man had the decency to blush. I coughed, for no reason whatsoever.

+~+~+

The following day, Sherlock woke me in the approved way with a blow-job that had me crying tears of gratitude. I was still lying in bed when he returned with the newspaper.

“Poor old fellow!” he said consolingly. “It must be difficult, being old.”

“I am only two and half years older than you!” I retorted. I may have felt more like twelve and a half just then, but I would never have admitted it.

“Nine hundred and sixty-eight days”, he said primly. I decided that being all but married to a genius was not all that it was cracked up to be, and pouted before turning my attentions to the paper.

“Some government official called Mr. Phyleus Rivers has vanished without a trace”, I read from the front page. “Possibly involved in the disappearance of certain high-level documents, he was last known to be heading for Pembrokeshire, where he was born.”

“I cannot investigate every disappearance of man and beast”, Sherlock yawned. “Nap time.”

He cuddled up against me, and was under in seconds. I stared down at him and sighed. I loved this man. 

+~+~+

We had just returned from a walk when the vicar called again. This time he looked positively alarmed. 

“I am beginning to wonder about our Mr. Davis myself!” he said. 

“Which of the sisters caught him doing something irregular his time?” Sherlock asked dryly. I sniggered. 

“Miss Katherine. She said she heard a noise outside last night, and looked out into the garden. She saw Mr. Davis digging a large hole, about six foot long. He must have been at it all night, because it was filled in this morning – except that there was some extra earth beside it!”

“What time was this?” I asked with a smile.

“Just after midnight.”

“Miss Katherine is very observant”, Sherlock smiled. “And a light sleeper. Like her sister!”

“And they both came to me when they read today's paper”, the vicar said, blushing slightly. “With this Mr. Rivers having disappeared, they thought... well, gentleman, you can imagine what they thought.”

“They should call in the police”, Sherlock said, to my surprise. “If this Mr. Davis is up to something, then they have the right, nay, the duty to investigate. It may be that he had some connection to this Mr. Rivers, and if so, the sisters could have seen part of a cover-up.”

“Do you think that I should encourage them to report the matter?” the vicar asked dubiously.

“In this case, yes”, Sherlock said firmly. “I am sure that we need to clear up a crime here.”

I was obviously having a(nother) slow day, or I would have spotted the double meaning there.

+~+~+

Constable Marcus Lynton scowled mightily. And with his bulk, it was a wide scowl.

“I am _most_ annoyed!” he said, glaring at the Goshen sisters who seemed to be trying to hide behind each other. “Some idiot student prank leaves a naked mannequin at your door, and your neighbour tries to spare your blushes by first hiding the thing and then burying it. And then you go and report him to us!”

“We did not know!” Miss Katherine quavered. 

“And now the jewellery that you were _certain_ had been stolen turns up in a drawer in your own house!” the policeman snapped. “If Mr. Davis' maid had not come round and suggested that she knew dusters were kept in that drawer, we might still be blaming her master for that. You ladies owe him an apology. Or two!”

Both ladies looked horrified.

“I suppose that Mr. Davis could, legally speaking, pursue a case against the ladies for bearing false witness”, Sherlock said airily. “It is a rarely used prosecution, but it is on the statute books. An apology would really be quite advisable, considering the alternative is a spell in jail. Thank you for coming, constable.”

The policeman gave the ladies another dark look, and left the room. Sherlock smiled knowingly.

“Ladies”, he said. “Doctor Watson and I must be returning to the capital. I must say that we have enjoyed our time on the Welsh Riviera, although in a way, I do hope that we are not obliged to return.”

“Why not?” Miss Katherine asked. 

“Let me tell you a story before I leave”, Sherlock smiled. “Two ladies of a certain age, bored with a quiet life in a small seaside resort where there is precious little to gossip about, are delighted to sell part of their parents' former property to a handsome, middle-aged gentleman. They go to a lot of trouble – the house is filled with the sort of touches that a wife would normally place there for a husband – only for the man to show precisely zero interest in either of them.”

So that was why Sherlock had looked so interested in Mr. Davis' room, I thought.

“Rebuffed, the ladies plan a most cruel and horrible revenge”, Sherlock went on. “Certain items of jewellery – personal rather than valuable – are planted in the man's house. This is quite easy because, since the three houses were once one, our ladies have keys to all the connecting doors. They plan to wait a week or so whilst making a fuss, and then to suggest that one of them saw one of the items 'whilst popping round'.”

“Unfortunately for their foul scheme, during that time their plan is discovered by a visiting consulting detective and his friend, who have been called in by the local vicar to investigate the spreading of gossip about the newcomer. The detective is most definitely _not_ amused at this attempt to destroy a fellow human being for no reason other than pure spite, and sets a counter-plot. The ladies' neighbour suddenly begins to behave in a most sinister manner. Shots are heard inside his house, he visits a local gun club, and worse, he is seen hiding a large and heavy human-sized object in his shed. This, coupled with a fake article about the disappearance of a man in the area that the detective has arranged to be in all the newspapers, leads the ladies to suspect the worst. Finally, the neighbour is seen digging a hole in his garden overnight - a hole which, by the earth beside it, was very clearly used to bury something large. The detective prompts the vicar, who is quite innocent in this affair, to advise the ladies that yes, it is high time to call in the police. And they find – a naked mannequin, evidently stolen from a local shop by some inebriated students.”

The two ladies stared at him in stony silence.

“The detective has also taken the precaution of employing a professional thief to search their target's house and retrieve the jewels”, Sherlock said, “and he now asks the same person to place them in the ladies' house whilst they are at the local police station. He also arranges for Mr. Davis' maid to call round and suggest looking for a duster in the same draw. I do not doubt that had your own maid found them there, you would have secured her silence.”

“It was only a bit of fun”, Miss Helen whined.

“A vile and malicious attempt to willfully destroy a fellow human being?” Sherlock snapped angrily. “'A bit of fun'? Ladies, I have had more than one case in the past when a person placed under such duress has taken their own life! Let me make something very clear to you; had such an eventuality occurred to Mr. Davis, I would have strained every sinew to bring you both to court on a charge of willful manslaughter!”

They both recoiled from his righteous anger. He spared them one last glare before sweeping from the room. I scuttled after him.

+~+~+

“People like that make me so angry!” he said later, as we stood waiting for the train back to Whitland and the connection to London. “They do not care about what they see as 'amusement'.”

“You should work out that anger on something”, I said, moving closer to him. “I am sure that we can find a private compartment on the express.”

We did. And I had to have a sit-down in the gentlemen's waiting-room at Paddington Station before I could face the bumpy (and thankfully short!) cab ride back to Baker Street. But at least Sherlock was happy, and that made me happy too. 

+~+~+

Next time, we are off on our travels again, as my brother calls us in on a curious death at the end of the line.


End file.
